It was odd, in a way, too, for he had married an American girl, the daughter of a sea captain who had visited the coast, and for many years he had held her memory sacred.  And, curiously enough, it was because of this enmity, if indirectly, that much of his fortune had been wasted.

Fully resolved that England—­even France or Russia, so long as Spain was out of the question—­should be given an opportunity to extend a protectorate over his beloved land, he had sent emissaries to Europe and supplied them with moneys—­far more than he could afford—­to give a series of lavish entertainments at which the wonderful richness and fertility of California could be exploited.  At one time it seemed as if his efforts in that direction would meet with success.  His plan had met with such favour from the authorities in the City of Mexico that Governor Pico had been instructed by them to issue a grant for several million of acres.  But the United States Government was quick to perceive the hidden meaning in the extravagances of these envoys in London, and in the end all that was accomplished was the hastening of the inevitable American occupation.

From that time on it is most difficult to imagine the zeal with which he endorsed the scheme of the native Californians for a republic of their own.  He was a leader when the latter made their attack on the Americans in Sonoma County and were repulsed with the loss of several killed.  One of these was Ramerrez’ only brother, who was the last, with the exception of himself and son, of a proud, old, Spanish family.  It was a terrible blow, and increased, if possible, his hatred for the Americans.  Later the old man took part in the battle of San Pasquale and the Mesa.  In the last engagement he was badly wounded, but even in that condition he announced his intention of fighting on and bitterly denounced his fellow-officers for agreeing to surrender.  As a matter of fact, he escaped that ignominy.  For, taking advantage of his great knowledge of the country, he contrived to make his way through the American lines with his few followers, and from that time may be said to have taken matters into his own hand.

Old Ramerrez was conscious that his end was merely a matter of hours, if not minutes.  Over and over again he had had himself propped up by his attendants with the expectation that his command to bring his son had been obeyed.  No one knew better than he how impossible it would be to resist another spasm like that which had seized him a little while after his son had ridden off the rancho early that morning.  Yet he relied once more on his iron constitution, and absolutely refused to die until he had laid upon his next of kin what he thoroughly believed to be a stern duty.  Deep down in heart, it is true, he was vaguely conscious of a feeling of dread lest his cherished revenge should meet with opposition; but he refused to harbour the thought, believing, not unnaturally, that, after having imposed his will upon others for nearly seventy years, it was extremely unlikely that his dying command should be disobeyed by his son.  And it was in the midst of these death-bed reflections that he heard hurried footsteps and knew that his boy had come at last.